[ there was a simple answer to that, one that shoyo doesn't get to mutter nor even twist to tell half the truth— oh, he's just out— because they've already talked about this together, and oikawa was the first to understand leaving the house for a bit of comfortable privacy. so, yes, he's out. he's out and he might take a while to get back.
had shoyo known the story, how it started, how it ended, he would want to talk about it— help him through it the best that he could, be absolutely worried sick that something so dreadful has happened but glad he was okay. now, the truth would be forever undermined, omitted into something that if he ever did find out about, that and of other things hidden in the shadows . . . it would become a massive, hurtful lie.
but he doesn't know, does he? he doesn't know about everything. all he knows is that lazarus has had a bad day and needed time to talk about it, which shoyo gives without question. he's having his fingers weaved with another set, and before the surprise can catch him from the chin up, there are lips to silence his.
the inevitable sparks light him up, he feels like his heart has stopped for a split second but was, actually, skipping fleetingly in preparation to batter as shoyo pursed his lips in turn, tipped his head to accommodate and— accepted, just like that, so easily. because it was easy, when you are under the impression that there wasn't anything glaringly wrong.
only someone who he's believing, more and more, enjoys him as much as he does. oh, he was going to talk first, about the other day, ask him out, put on the game. picanha already does that. the room is lit dimly and comfortably, the wall is having a volleyball game projected onto it by the eyes of his omen (who really would rather be turned that way, become stone-still and non-living), and shoyo welcomes him fully. by mouth, readily keeping up with a hunger that was matched (and reminded of how much he'd wanted to do this again), by hand, his thumbs rubbing the other's hand, and his own remaining limb, finding its way to a bare neck and damp strands of hair, all warm and shower-fresh to the touch.
this was fine to get lost in. it was wonderfully, terribly fine. ]
no subject
had shoyo known the story, how it started, how it ended, he would want to talk about it— help him through it the best that he could, be absolutely worried sick that something so dreadful has happened but glad he was okay. now, the truth would be forever undermined, omitted into something that if he ever did find out about, that and of other things hidden in the shadows . . . it would become a massive, hurtful lie.
but he doesn't know, does he? he doesn't know about everything. all he knows is that lazarus has had a bad day and needed time to talk about it, which shoyo gives without question. he's having his fingers weaved with another set, and before the surprise can catch him from the chin up, there are lips to silence his.
the inevitable sparks light him up, he feels like his heart has stopped for a split second but was, actually, skipping fleetingly in preparation to batter as shoyo pursed his lips in turn, tipped his head to accommodate and— accepted, just like that, so easily. because it was easy, when you are under the impression that there wasn't anything glaringly wrong.
only someone who he's believing, more and more, enjoys him as much as he does. oh, he was going to talk first, about the other day, ask him out, put on the game. picanha already does that. the room is lit dimly and comfortably, the wall is having a volleyball game projected onto it by the eyes of his omen (who really would rather be turned that way, become stone-still and non-living), and shoyo welcomes him fully. by mouth, readily keeping up with a hunger that was matched (and reminded of how much he'd wanted to do this again), by hand, his thumbs rubbing the other's hand, and his own remaining limb, finding its way to a bare neck and damp strands of hair, all warm and shower-fresh to the touch.
this was fine to get lost in. it was wonderfully, terribly fine. ]